


You'd Totally Fuck Me

by williamastankova



Category: You (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Because they're on drugs, Bi-Curiosity, Bisexual Male Character, Choking, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Drunken Kissing, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, Floor Sex, Forty is bi, Friends to Lovers, Hotel Sex, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Moaning, Neck Kissing, Palming, Prompt Fic, Rough Kissing, Tumblr Prompt, We all know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22317043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Forty wants Joe to admit that he'd fuck him, but he gets more than he bargained for.Not that he's complaining, mind.(Written for @acidegenerate on Tumblr! Thanks for the prompt :))
Relationships: Joe Goldberg & Forty Quinn, Joe Goldberg/Forty Quinn
Comments: 15
Kudos: 218





	You'd Totally Fuck Me

Joe's frantically searching for the moon juice that'll put him out of his misery when Forty says it, the first time.

"You'd totally fuck me," Forty says, swaying where he stands. At first, Joe's not sure he's heard him right, what with his head spinning and feeling like it's going to fly right off of his shoulders. He leans out of the fridge a little, just enough so he can look at Forty, whose smile grows a little wider at Joe's intrigue. "Admit it, you would."

Joe opens his mouth, though it's a redundant action because he doesn't actually have words to say. How is he meant to respond to that? He can't say yes, because that's just plain weird. But he can't say no, because he knows that'll upset Forty, and he's not sure he can take care of him in his current inebriated state. And besides... his intoxicated mind thinks it's okay for him to languidly run his eyes up Forty's strong form and, even though it's dark, he can still see that yeah, the guy is good looking.

But that's just objective, he tells himself as he shakes his head and renews his hunt for the drinks. If he were sober, this would be so much easier. Then again, if he were sober he wouldn't have to be here, in this degrading position, rummaging for a saviour drink.

He blames Forty wholeheartedly. He's about to say something - though he's not sure what - but then he finds the moon juice, and soon after they're promptly chased out of the shop, so he forgets whatever ludicrous statement he was going to make.

-

Back at the hotel room, they indulge in the fine drinks they've stolen (bought? Did one of them pay for these? He can't exactly remember now). They sit cross-legged on the floor, across from each other, and they stare at each other like this isn't a completely insane situation to be stuck in.

Forty's face is good. Endless awards go to him for his poetic description there, right? But that's just about all his hazy mind can form: he likes Forty's face. It's a nice face, the kind you'd see on adverts and in magazines, with a defined jaw, tidy beard, masculine features with just the slightest hint of femininity in the eyes. Joe thinks that's where Forty looks most like Love; they've both got those glistening blue eyes that hide some sort of sadness or trauma behind them. It's devastating, but fascinating.

"Joe," Forty calls to him, and his voice fades into Joe's head. He waves a hand lazily in front of Joe's face, "Yo, broseph! You good?"

"Yeah," Joe responds plainly, and he's pretty sure an uncontrollable smile spreads across his face as he continues to look over at Forty, though he can't be positive what he's imagining and what he isn't right now.

"Wow, dude, you look _out of it_ ," Forty's words imply that he's doing much better, but when he makes to stand it takes him five tries to actually get steady on his feet. He crosses the room slowly, obviously trying not to fall back down on his ass again, and retrieves two more moon juices. 

"We should be working," Joe states dreamily, but makes no move to stand and begin their writing again. He just watches as Forty comes back, movements deliberate and calculated, with their last four drinks in his arms. His mind echoes, and he thinks he repeats, "Should be working."

"Nah, man!" Forty shakes off his guilt in these two simple words, then goes on, "We're too fucked to do anything that taxing, broseph. Don't you worry your pretty head about that; we can start again tomorrow."

Joe's head fills to the brim with water, and thoughts swim rapidly around it, as though trying to win some sort of a marathon. Firstly, does that mean he's going to be trapped here tomorrow, too? Because they've already used the 'Mama Ru' escape, so it's not like he can just walk out, which basically absolutely fucks his life up, impending arrest and all. And secondly, did Forty just call him pretty?

"Yeah, pretty," Forty repeats as he sits back down, a gentle smirk pulling at his pink lips, and - oh God, did Joe just monologue aloud? This can _not_ be good. If he said all of that, if Forty asks about what he's meant to be doing tomorrow- "What about me?"

Shit. Shit shit shit, he's said it out loud, hasn't he? Forty probably wants to know what's going to happen to him when Joe leaves. He just has to play this cool, be calm and collected.

"What about you?"

"You know, man," Forty gives him a look that Joe can't quite place, but he's sure it's not like anything he's seen the man sport before. "What about me? Am I pretty or not?"

Oh, thank _God_. Joe is prepared to kiss the ground in relief, before he realises he's not _exactly_ out of the woods just yet. He quirks a brow at Forty, prepared to say no, that's not what he thinks. That he isn't like that - well, not usually, anyway - but then his eyes drop to Forty's lips, and he feels winded.

What is _happening_? He's never looked at Forty like this before. It feels wrong - not because of what it is, but because of who it is. This is Love's twin brother, for fuck's sake, and now he's got his eyes glued to the man's lips like they have no prior history. Joe vaguely imagines a scenario in which everything's different, where he meets Forty at a night club, having never known Love, and wonders how that would change his inhibitions. It's almost a disturbing thought.

"I mean," Joe stalls, buying himself more time to think. But when he tries to access some sort of polite excuse, all he can focus on is how well-built Forty is. He's tall, keeps himself in shape. Hell, the man is _built_ , and anybody would be a fool to deny his attractiveness, gay straight or anywhere in-between. Against his better judgement, his traitorous mouth forms the words, "I guess."

This response lights up Forty's eyes. There's something new there, something Joe's never seen before - never really had cause to see - and suddenly his tongue flicks out and wets his lips. This is not good.

"So," Forty almost sounds like he's going to let Joe off the hook, which would be unexpected but appreciated, but of course he doesn't. "Would you fuck me?"

Joe instinctively shakes his head, thanks to reasonable reactions, and this makes Forty frown.

"Come on," Forty insists, slurring a little, "So you think I'm hot but you wouldn't put your meat in this tight package? Seriously, broseph?"

Joe cringes at Forty's crude word choice, but then he's launched into a stream of scenarios, all of which he's never, ever thought of before. He wonders what it would feel like to have Forty give himself over to Joe - this man, so powerful and conceited and important, letting Joe just _have him_ , ravish him like a fine three-course meal. The immense wave of desire washes over him as he imagines Forty gently rocking his hips forwards and back, riding Joe like there's nothing else he'd rather do in the whole entire world. What is _in_ these drugs?

In the time it's taken Joe to mindlessly run through these imaginations, it seems Forty's moved closer. Now, instead of having a large gap between them, there's only a slight slither of space. 

"Tell me you'd fuck me, Joe," Hearing Forty use his name - his real name, not 'Will' or the usual 'broseph' - makes a thousand pinheads appear at his spine, threatening to impale him, "Tell me you want me."

Yes, he's invading Joe's personal space. And yes, Joe should absolutely move away, because with the way Forty's no longer looking into his eyes, instead seeming fascinated by his slightly ajar lips, this is the most obvious example of a dangerous situation. But still, there's something about the heated look in Forty's eyes, the newfound intensity in his actions, that makes Joe stay right where he is, waiting.

Then, the inevitable happens. Forty finally seals the vacuum between their lips, and Joe lets him. Why does he let him? He's going to blame the drugs for the pit of longing in his stomach, and he vows that, as long as he doesn't kiss Forty back, he's done nothing wrong.

Soon enough, Forty is pulling back, looking him in the eyes. The once-blue orbs have transfigured, now seeming more devilish black as Joe stares back into them. He doesn't know what to do, kind of wants to drag Forty back in, but knows he can't do that. He's a man of his word.

"Tell me," Forty shortens the request, but Joe still know what he wants to hear. This man is insufferable. 

And then, the demon that is Forty does something even more wicked. He purposefully evades Joe's lips when he leans back in, tilting his head instead in favour of the exposed length of Joe's neck. He plants a single kiss onto his jawline, then one just further down, to the right of his Adam's apple. Joe barely manages to suppress a groan when Forty pulls back again.

As though on a tightening fish-hook, however, Forty doesn't retreat quite as far before he stops and implores, "Tell me."

He pauses for a moment, waiting for Joe to comply, but when he doesn't Forty seems to grow more impatient. With some speed, Forty manages to crawl over to him, and plants his hands on Joe's shoulders to push him back just a little, manoeuvring him where he wants him. Joe lets himself be manhandled, against his better judgement, simply on the grounds that he finds he enjoys it. Who'd have known?

Forty swiftly clambers onto his lap, and wastes no time in returning his lips to Joe's neck, kissing the skin once more, biting once for good measure - or maybe as a punishment for his refusal to tell Forty what he wants to hear. He then comes back to Joe's lips, kissing him harder this time, with more fervour. It's a bruising kiss, but still Joe employs his excellent self-restraint and doesn't kiss Forty back.

"Tell me," Forty insists as he pulls back once more, but then is quick to kiss Joe again, clutching the man's face in his hands like a starving man having discovered a precious jewel. Each time he pulls back, he repeats, "Tell me."

Joe's managing to (mainly) keep his cool, until Forty starts grinding down against him. Only then does a moan escape his lips and, though it feels shameful, he can't find it in himself to feel ashamed. Rather, he seems to lose all his inhibitions and kisses Forty back, desperately trying to make up for all the ones he rejected. It feels so wrong, and yet he can't stop himself.

His hands instantly fly to Forty's hips, resting atop them as the other man shamelessly grinds against him. Forty, the torturer, removes a hand from his jaw to reach down and grasp him loosely through his jeans. It's sloppy, but then they are on drugs, so what else can you expect? Any sort of contact is good right about now.

Joe begins to lie back, and Forty follows shortly after, taking the opportunity to grasp himself with his other hand through his pants. Joe watches as a beautifully circular 'o' forms on Forty's lips, obviously taken aback by the intense sensation. He smiles up at him, but this is soon kissed away by Forty, who re-claims his lips once more, simultaneously touching both of them.

This should be weird. Right? This is a less-than-normal situation to find yourself in, making out with your ex-girlfriend's twin brother on the floor of an admittedly really nice hotel room while he palms both of you, when you're both still fully-clothed. Still, even though he acknowledges this, he doesn't stop, just loses himself more in the delight that is Forty.

It surprises Joe, how needy the man is. Perhaps it's strange to compare, but there's a very clear difference between Love and Forty's bedroom attitudes. The first time he and Love had sex, she was almost entirely dominant, unafraid to take what she wanted (after being granted permission, of course), whereas Forty seems to be much more submissive. Even though Joe's kissing him back now, he's still intermittently asking that he 'tells him', almost like it's a subconscious request now, like it's the only thing that'll get him off.

"Forty, stop," Joe requests, and it takes a moment for Forty to hear him, but he does. The desperation on Forty's face is _amazing_ , something only a Renaissance painting could truly capture. He's got dark eyes, but they're looking up at Joe like a puppy dog, almost pleading with him to just finish him off already. Joe knows there's a hundred ways he could take Forty apart right now, but there's just one he wants. 

"I want to fuck you."

The relieved look on Forty's face is something Joe doubts he'll ever regret. Forty immediately pulls back, sitting more upright than he had been, letting Joe lean up on his elbows and admire the view as Forty rips off his shirt, ruining his hair as he pulls it over his head but somehow making it immeasurably better, much more of a 'I-got-fucked-today' sort of vibe.

Joe is half-expecting Forty to kiss him again after this, but he doesn't. Instead, Forty leans forward and tears Joe's t-shirt over his head, no warning, leaving him suddenly very delectably exposed.

A moment passes in which Forty just stares, runs a single hand down Joe's chest and breathes hard. Then it's gone, and urgent Forty returns, moving away just momentarily to take off his pants, and Joe takes the hint and removes his own, discarding them somewhere behind his head, leaving him in only his underwear, infinitely more vulnerable than he had been as he lays before Forty. Forty isn't wearing any underwear, because of course he isn't. Why would he be?

He knits his brows together as Forty stands and crosses the room. For a second, he thinks he's misread all the signals, that he's imagined the whole thing, or that Forty's dose has finally started to wear off and he doesn't want to do anything anymore. Which would be fine, though a bit of a bummer in all honesty; after that, he doesn't really want to go and jack himself off in the bathroom, though he could and would if it came down to it.

Thankfully, though, Forty comes back, holding a pillow, bottle of lube and a condom. Joe can only laugh.

"Seriously?"

"I come here a lot," Forty shrugs, smiling back at him as he kneels back down beside him, "You've always got to be prepared. How do you want to do this?"

Joe ponders for a moment. There would be as sort of pleasure from watching Forty prepare himself, inserting finger after finger, moaning Joe's name as he fucks himself into being ready to be impaled by Joe's cock. But then again, Joe's always found the sense of power he gets from doing things himself gives him the best sort of rush, so he gestures for Forty to hand him over the supplies, which he does gladly.

Forty lays down, reaching for the pillow, and they switch positions. Joe, now kneeling between Forty's legs, gathers some lube onto his fingers. He's done this once or twice before, dabbled a little in the grey area of his sexuality, so he's pretty sure he knows the basics of how to do it.

He inserts one finger, easing into Forty, knowing they have all the time in the world (well, maybe not, but he's trying not to focus too much on that right now, seeing as there's no escape). He just watches as Forty's face contorts - first of pain, then of pleasure. A whine erupts from Forty's throat as Joe starts easing his finger in and out, and just as it looks like Forty's going to black out, he speaks.

"More," is all he manages to say, and Joe obliges, inserting another finger, repeating the motions, then scissoring just a little bit, which it seems Forty enjoys. The man beneath him writhes and moans uncontrollably, then asks for Joe to add the third and be done with it. 

Who is Joe to refuse such a desperate man when he begs him? Joe adds the third, pumps a few times, and stops when Forty's whine turns into a plead for him to stop.

"I'm gonna come if you keep doing that," Forty explains, sounding not all-there, but offers him a worn-out smile as punctuation of the compliment. Okay, so he _is_ doing this right. Forty waits for a moment, obviously trying to distract himself, then nods and says, "Okay, do it. I'm ready."

Joe waits an extra few seconds for his own sake, but then prepares himself, rolling on the condom and spreading some lube on top of that, just for good measure. He's sure it won't be that bad anyway, what with them both being high as a kite, but he wants to cause Forty the least amount of pain and most amount of pleasure he can; God knows the man deserves it.

He's barely lined himself up before Forty is wriggling, like he's trying to get the job done himself, and Joe thinks that maybe there is a similarity between Forty and Love after all. Taking the hint, he pushes forward, managing to enter Forty in one. 

The sound that erupts from Forty makes him think he's killed the man. The noise echoes, a blended mix between a whine, moan, and groan. He sounds pained, but when Joe studies his face, he finds nothing but pleasure. Still, he decides it's better to be safe than sorry, so he pipes up and asks, not moving his hips for the moment.

"Is this okay?"

"Yes, fucking- yes, Joe, _m_ _ove_!" Forty's writhing starts up again, and Joe, feeling comforted (if not a little affronted) by this keen response begins to move his hips as rhythmically as he can manage.

It's _intense_. Obviously Joe knows sex is good, but he's not convinced it's ever been quite _this_ good before. He's not sure if it's the fact that he's on drugs or the fact that it's Forty-fucking-Quinn that he's inside of right now, but something about the situation is different, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to get enough of it. He snaps his hips forward, and his head falls back. Repeat.

He can't hear if he's making any sound, but even if he is it's nowhere as much as Forty. Forty is full-on moaning, whining on the floor as Joe fucks into him, fingernails clawing aimlessly at the laminate beneath him, clearly enjoying himself as much as - if not more than - Joe. He doesn't think he's ever felt more accomplished in his entire life.

"Fuck, Joe, fuck-" He begins to chant, one hand reaching up towards Joe. He's tempted to lean into the touch, let Forty's hand roam across his chest, grasp at his face, but he knows that'd just complicate their perfected position, so instead he just abandons one of Forty's hips, bringing his left hand instead to clutch Forty's right, interlacing their fingers as he continues fucking into him.

Then, the unexpected. Forty takes the hold he has on Joe's one hand and brings it to rest at - no, _on_ \- his throat. He covers Joe's hand with his own, applying pressure, eventually choking and spluttering but moaning all the same. Joe takes the hint.

Careful not to mess up the rhythm he's found by the grace of God, he brings his other hand to Forty's throat, and applies a testing amount of pressure. This simple action forces Forty to arch his back upwards, and he coughs once before he finishes, spreading white come all over his own chest, a whine managing to escape the airless chamber Joe's made of his neck. It's reminiscent of before, when Joe almost killed Forty by choking him, but there's a new light shed upon it now: he knows Forty is deriving intense pleasure from this, the masochist.

He lets go of Forty's neck, returning his hands to his hips again. Joe almost comes right then and there, just from watching Forty's deprived desires come to life and make him climax, but he doesn't. It doesn't take much more, admittedly, as he bucks his hips only a handful more times before he's coming, spilling into the condom, his eyes fixed on Forty's quivering form the whole time.

The sight is hard to let go, but Joe knows it's time to withdraw himself from Forty and deal with what just happened. Maybe it won't be so awkward right now, considering they're still on cloud nine in cuckoo land, but in a couple of hours, they aren't going to know what they've done, nor why.

For now, though, he just pulls out of Forty and takes the condom off, searching around for a bin to put it in or something. This is apparently funny to Forty, who laughs and looks around at him, resting his head on his arms.

"Just leave it, broseph," he tells him, gesturing to the tiled floor, "The cleaning staff know to give this place a _deep_ clean when I leave."

So this is where they are again. Back once more is the 'broseph', the crude humour, the unspoken no-kissing policy. Back to strangers - well, friends, strictly speaking, but being friends after something that intense always feels like you might as well just be strangers and get it over with. Rip off the band-aid; ignore the condom on the floor.

Joe does as he's told, however, and then doesn't know what to do with himself. He's not sure what's proper etiquette after these sorts of things: does he get up and dressed, sit somewhere in silence til the drugs wear off, then it's back to work? Or is he allowed to touch Forty now, even just a little more fondly than usual? If there's one thing he knows for sure, it's that he doesn't want to be the stereotype of asking 'what are we' after such a perfect fuck. He'd ruin the mood, for sure. God, he can't wait for these drugs to wear off.

Just as he decides he's going to go shower or bathe or _something_ to scrub the mingling stenches of sex and Forty's cologne off of him, Forty calls his name.

"Joe," he says, making the man look back at him, eyes wide and uncertain, half-expecting to be thrown out of the room now they're done, butt-naked in front of Dmitri. He'd never live that down, right up until the second he was murdered for leaving the hotel.

"Hmm?" 

Forty stands, unstable, still shaking as the after-shocks of his orgasm pulse through him. He takes his time as he crosses the room, stopping before the bed, and turns back to gesture to Joe, who's been watching him the whole time.

"Come and lie down for a bit," Forty requests, looking ready to collapse, "Unless you have somewhere better to be?"

Joe knows Forty is teasing him here. He knows it's just a game, but he can't help but think he really should leave. He has to go, has to flee the state - maybe even the country - and yet, inexplicably, he finds himself following Forty to bed. The pair of them fall backwards together, and then Forty bursts into a fit of giggles.

"This is wrong," he says, and though it's not a nice thing, he seems to be pleased as he says so, "This is so wrong. I just got fucked by my sister's ex. Isn't that wrong?"

"Mmm," Joe hums in agreement, his head tilted to the side slightly so he can admire Forty's chuckling, beautiful face. "This is so wrong."

Forty's fit lasts for a while, but Joe doesn't mind waiting - not with a view like this. As soon as he finishes, he holds Joe's eye, looking at him in an almost questioning manner. He quirks a brow, but quickly decides to just go for it and leans forward, planting a kiss on Joe's lips. Joe kisses him back, unable and unwilling not to; the man is positively irresistible.

He can't help but smile as Forty shuffles to be closer to him, resting his chin on his shoulder and gently kissing his cheek when Joe turns his head to face the ceiling. This, in its own terrible way, feels like heaven. The pleasure, the bliss he's feeling, all Forty's work. Even though part of him knows he should drag himself away, should force Forty to give him whatever secret password there is to get their shit back and then board a plane, never to be seen again, Joe doesn't want to do that. He indulges, relishing in the feeling of Forty kissing the side of his face and down his neck, and selfishly, he doesn't care about anything else.

"We never have to leave, you know," Forty murmurs to him, the breath hitting Joe's ear, warm and sweet. Forty's smell surrounds him, traps him, straps him to the bed and promises to never let him up, "Dmitri won't let anyone get past. Not Love, not my parents, not anyone."

And Joe thinks this sounds nice. This is the sort of fantasy he doesn't mind losing himself in, just for a short while. He knows there'll come a time where he'll be forced to stand, to dress and either work or run, but that time is not now. For now, he's safe - they're safe, here together - and he's not willing to give any of that up for the world.

"I'm so fucked," Forty states intelligently, and Joe acknowledges the humorous double-meaning, "We're so fucked."

"Yeah," Joe finds himself nodding, but there's no budding sense of fear in his chest, no reason to fret right now, "Yeah, we are."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this fic! I was SO ready to write about these two. I just,,, love them?? let me know if you enjoyed :)
> 
> Feel free to comment Joe x Forty prompts on here, or message/inbox me on my tumblr @samaraclegane


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